


We Want the Airwaves

by jendavis



Series: Danger Days [4]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten days after the Killjoys rescue Grace from Battery City, Dr. D's going back on the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Want the Airwaves

Lighting another smoke, I blow it out the exhaust vent, rolling my neck and trying to concentrate on Korse's notes, but it's not as if they're of any real import, right now. For now, they're just passing the time.

What's the world for the feeling you get when you come across decade-old research notes written by a friend- an _ally_ \- ten days after said brainwashed ally kills off four of your favorite amnesiacs? Two of whom happen to be that ally's own _sons_ , and _all_ of whom only hit heavy on BLInd's radar because you enlisted them to rescue an orphan girl of interesting repute?

The ident bomb wiped everyone out, but it didn't stop completely insane things from happening. I suppose it's a comforting thought.

\---

Outside, finally, I can hear a car pulling up and the engine cutting out. Grace, in the kitchen barely glances up from her crayons, disappointed by whoever she sees out the windows. It's never who she wants it to be. She doesn't seem worried, either, though, so I ease my hand away from my gun and listen.

It's not until I hear grinding squeak of a slamming door that I recognize Kev's car, and a few moments later, Pony's skating up the ramp, turns through the kitchen and comes back to our erstwhile studio. He's carrying a black metal box, and I roll my chair forward, grinning. "You're kidding me."

"Before you get your hopes up," he grimaces, shaking his head, shows me where the cord ends, suddenly, plug-less. I can fix it, easily, but not in time for tonight's show. "And Betsy also said that soon as she's back in the Zones, she an' Acid can help out with Grace."

"Good. You get those coordinates from Tommy?"

"Kev's heading out to Zone 6 to see about the burnout, and promised to drop the relay in 5 on the way. He says Tommy's still bitchfaced, but his right about the raids again- they're hitting Zone 2, probably as we speak." Pony reaches into his shorts and pulls out a cassette tape. It's Mad Gear's new stuff, they'd been promising it for a while now.

Unfolding the liner notes, I find the scrawled coordinates and check them against the map tacked to the boarded up windows. Looks like new drone chargers are being planned all over the damned place, but they're still focusing on Zone six for camera upgrades. We're good squatting here for at least a month, maybe two.

"Looks like we're golden. Least for a while." I set the paper, along with Korse's notes, on top of the box of CDs. Remembering tat I'm not going to need them this week, my disappointment returns. It's been three months since we've had one that works, and it's harder to find one that actually _works_ without going into the City.

The sand gets in everywhere when the windows are shot out. And there's been an awful lot of that going around, lately.

"But it's still on, though, right?"

"Damned right it is." _Fake it 'til you make it_.

\---

I swerve my chair back over to the microphone, and hit _play_ , and it's a static blast before the Ramones are singing _We Want the Airwaves_ , and I've got about three minutes to get my head on straight.

It's taken a week to get this place set up and wired. It's been two since I've spoken into a microphone.

It's hard to feel up to being _Deathdefying_ when too many others _don't_.

They're dead, or what passes for it these days. Nobody knows yet. We haven't heard. But they got her out. The Killjoys. They saved her and maybe even the rest of the world. They're fucking heroes, at least until they come to get us.

\---

Grace is sitting in the kitchen, drawing again. If it weren't for those crayons that Pony scrounged up out of who-knows-fucking-where, she'd be-

Fuck it, she'd be exactly where she is, only without any crayons. We'd find something else for her to do, some other way of keeping her mind off things for a while, and she'd spend most of her time staring out the window, anyway.

Ain't like she's bad, for a kid she doesn't scream or whine or cry, and fuck, it's not like she doesn't have a reason. But she still isn't talking, though. I don't honestly know if she can, and Pony can't remember. It hadn't occurred to me to ask Party or Jet, back when I'd had the chance.

\---

"…sorry I've been gone so long, things been a little hot and heavy lately, maybe you've heard, maybe you've noticed. And if you haven't, I'll let this next song pass it on. This one's going out to the memories of those _fabulous_ Killjoys, who might be out wandering without 'em. Strike Anywhere, with _Amplify_."

\---

Show Pony had been the one to dub them the Killjoys, and he'd meant it at the time. It had been a bad-burning few weeks, and I'd just realized that we needed the boys to make a run on Zone four, so I'd sent Pony out to their last known location with the new coordinates, and he'd gotten caught up in a sandstorm on the way back.

Pony had stormed through the door on skates that didn't seem to work right, and the glitter had been blasted off his helmet. It was as furious as I'd ever seen him, as furious as he was _capable_ of being. He'd been so sunburned and raw that I'd had to go on the air and tell the zonehoppers that his birthday extravaganza had been cancelled.

It hadn't really mattered, though, in the end. He repainted his helmet, and though he'd done what he could to fix his skates, he'd never managed to get it through his head that spandex didn't stand up in a sandstorm. And he'd chosen a new birthday for himself, anyhow, a few weeks later.

So yeah, everything was golden with Show Pony, and by the time the rescheduled party scene went down at Hyper-Thrusts he'd mostly forgotten about it. But he hadn't been so gone that he'd forgotten how to milk it.

"…And my wheels've been running rough," he'd been whining, loudly, over the music as Kobra, cornered in the booth as he was, tried not to roll his eyes. "I'm _never_ gonna get all the sand out of them, the bearings are completely thrashed." Pony'd finished up the tirade with a pout. It seemed to work, though, and Kobra was handing over the porno-wrapped box the boys had brought for him.

Jet had shaken his head, swatting Pony's hands away. "Just wait for Party and Ghoul to get back with the next round first, yeah?"

"They're probably still playing _footsie_ with each other," Pony'd grumbled, making a show of sitting on his hands and craning his neck to see over the crowd. When the time the two of them had finally returned bearing coolant cocktails and mostly un-spilled shots, Pony had crossed his arms, apparently not finished acting like a bratty kid.

"Can I _open_ my present now, or are you not all done being total fuckin' _killjoys_?"

Party had smirked at this, quirking a brow raising his glass in salute. "Then fuckin' _open_ it already, birthday boy."

Where they'd found a set of roller skates that fit, _without_ Pony knowing about it, I'd never gotten around to asking. He's worn them ever since, they'd been Killjoys ever since.

\---

 _Fuckin' Killjoys_.

I miss those fuckers. Even if they're not dead, even if their bodies are still running around the zones, they've probably been killed off. Wiped. Erased. What the fuck ever. Gone.

It's worse than Korse, this time around. Maybe because he was in on it with me from the start, maybe it was because his hands were as dirty as mine and we all deserve what we're getting. Maybe it was because the Killjoys only had the shot that we gave them, and we didn't give 'em much.

But they still gave us everything, and she's sitting on the counter, feet kicking against the busted cabinet door and holding whatever she's drawn up so Show Pony can see it. He swings in a tight circle around the counter, a can of food in his hand, pointing something out and making a loud growling noise, trying to get her to laugh. It almost takes. Closer than I'd been able to get all day.

It's the three of us against the world and I've never felt so doomed. I dig through the boxes of cassettes until I can find another tape and throw it on.

\---

"…That was Mad Gear and the Missile Kid with their new brain-jacking _F.T.W.W.W._ , in fresh this week." I cue up the next tape, glaring at the box. "And speaking of local crews, remember tomorrow's the next Cold Dead Hands gig, and as far as location goes, if you ain't in the know, you'd better _ask someone_." Next up is a lovely little love number for our sister city, 'cause hell, let's face it. Might be a little rude, Dear Sister Battered City, a little unfriendly to say that I want to _destroy_ you outright, but listen up. You. Fucking. Started it."

\---

I never paid attention to the radio, growing up. It was all the same crap, but there was a lot more of it, see. Stations and stations and _stations_. Didn't like what you heard on one, you just tuned into something else. Didn't mean there was always _anything_ you wanted to hear, though, and most of the time I didn't pay much attention at all.

I remember when I started, though.

I'd fallen asleep mid- pre-med all-nighter, and woken up with my face plastered to my desk and the DJ's voice bubbling up through the room around me as she turned a disc over and blew my face off with this one track, _Failures_ , I couldn't have slept for the rest of the night if I'd _wanted_ to.

Falling in love and tuning in the next week had been easy at that point. Getting DJ Becca's number had taken a bit more, but I'd managed.

\---

By the time the song's over, I'm pretty sure I've found Deathdefying's energy again, well enough to announce, "that was the Rock n' Roll Soldiers, with their track _Failures_ done back when _having your face burned off_ meant you'd enjoyed the show, and nothing more. Remember kids, music won't save your world, it'll just remind you that it's _possible_ …"

\---

Grace is falling asleep on the counter, so Pony takes the crayons from her hand, watches carefully as she jumps down from the counter, and tries to usher her back to her room. Like usual, though, she plants herself on the couch and turns huge eyes at him until he relents. She curls up on one end, pulling her hat down and clenching it in her fist like it was a stuffed animal, and I'm kind of pissed that she doesn't have a real one. After a few moments, she rolls over, her back to me and the rest of the room, lets Pony drape the blanket over her, and they bump fists before he steps away.

He's actually pretty good at this babysitting thing. I suppose I should stop calling it that at some point. This ain't no part-time thing no more. Then again, crayons and roller skates were his thing even _before_ she came along.

I used to think that I might have kids some day, but that was a long time ago. I _never_ thought I'd be sharing parenting duties with someone like _Show Pony_. How she hasn't just died from our collective incompetence is beyond me.

How I'm supposed to talk to her about letting me scan her brain, so I can finish working on Korse's device, so I can cure the entire world of commercially created amnesia? Or that S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W will probably never stop hunting her? How do I explain that that she's the most important person in the world- to a lot of different people, for a lot of different reasons but mostly because her memory cannot be erased? That her identity is more permanent than everyone else's? That she's a tape that can't be dubbed over?

There aren't many books left, there aren't many libraries. The few parenting books I've scrounged up don't say anything about raising the savior of the human race.

She's just a fucking kid.

So I'm going to give her the choice.

On this, I'm forcing myself to be resolute. I left Better Living, I but I know how to live _right_ , and making martyrs of little kids ain't part of it. But. Fuck.

What if she says no?

Even sleeping, Grace is way too much for me to handle, and it's only habit that has me cuing up the next track, cutting quick, no time for talking. I'm all for honesty, but weakness dies quick on the roads, and I'm not going to let it spread.

Another ten minutes, though, and I'm almost wishing she'd wake up. It's lonely, sitting here in this burned out old trailer and talking to myself. It's not like I can see the people listening to all this, if anyone is.

My most avid listeners are dead, at least the parts of them that were my listeners. Their bodies might be wandering around, blank, by now. Zombified for Better Living. Zombies don't call in to radio shows. They don't make requests.

So I try and guess what they would have wanted to hear, because it's not like I can _save_ them or _cure_ them or _fix_ them, yet. I won't be able to do that for a while. I just hope I get the chance.

\---

This trailer's barely been broken in. We'd cleaned it out a while ago, started setting it up as a Just-In-Case backup hideout, and it's solid, but it doesn't really feel like home. Did what we could. Hung some pictures on the wall, found a few pointless things like a vase to set on the edge of a table, just for the hell of it.

That vase is going to be here when we leave, unless the Drac's knock it over when they eventually make it through all our relays and manage to triangulate the correct signal. It doesn't matter. The vase means nothing to me. The only decorations that _do_ have any sentimental value are the bounty posters, one of each of the Killjoys. Cherri Cola kicked them over to Show Pony a few runs before we lost him to the City. They're torn at the edges and stapled into the wall, now, in a row above the sofa.

Grace spends a lot of time staring at the pictures. I do too. Far as I can tell, it's the one thing we've got in common. She hasn't cried over them yet, though, far as I've seen.

I almost wish I had Korse's picture on the wall, too. I could have a photographic tally of the souls I've lost along the way.

\---

 _You'll Never Walk Alone_ , I'm just realizing, was the _wrong_ song to play. Thought it would make a nice tribute, but I'm overdosing on the irony, here.

I've destroyed every ally, every _person_ I've given a rat's ass about. Scrambled Show Pony's brains. Left Korse behind to turn into a monster. Gotten the Killjoys dusted or worse. It's all gonna be down to Grace now, and she hasn't even woken up from her nap.

There's too many years ahead where I could fuck things up for her before she even gets the chance, and no guarantees that I'll still be alive- still be _me_ \- this time next year. And yeah Show Pony will do what he can, but I'm not fooling myself. He's resourceful, he's loyal, and his heart's in the right place, but…

I _can't_ afford to fool myself. Me and Korse wiped out half of his brain. Someone else is going to have to take over when I go down. So I get back on the microphone, say what I _should_ say instead of what I _want_ to, and hope that someone's listening.

\---

I'm not expecting it when I look up, but Grace is rubbing her eyes and blinking at me, puzzled. She's probably wondering where she is, if she's still dreaming. I have no idea, but she's got this look on her face like she's _listening_ , and I'm just realizing that the song I'm playing now is more depressing than the _previous_ one, and I wonder if she's going to speak, maybe, or start crying. I want to apologize, just in _case_ it's the music that put that look on her face.

 _Fuck_ , I saw them take out Jet Star too. And she saw them _all_ go down, and more.

She's frowning, and reaches under the couch, dragging out her vest and digging through the pockets with a determined look on her. I don't know why she's frowning-maybe she's hungry, maybe she needs something, maybe she's _finally_ going to _say_ something, give me some sort of idea how the hell I'm supposed to keep her safe, alive.

Instead, she's looking at the rigged up studio, then back at me. I don't know what this new look means, biting her lip and not quite meeting my eyes, but then she's handing me something. It's a tape case, scratched and worn, but it's not empty. I don't know why I assumed it would be.

The cover's got a picture of a city on it, but it doesn't make sense until I unfold it and find that at one point, it was the CD liner for something called the Archandroid. The creases are fuzzy, some of them taped together, and the tape inside the case proves what I already know. It's pirated, like everything else in our existence. The city's actually a headdress, of a sort, worn by a woman with giant triangle earrings and reminding me of too many things that nobody else remembers, now.

She's looking at the tape deck, now, then back to me, and I get it.

"You want me to play this?" I take the tape out, there's masking tape labeling the sides but no indication as to what song she wants, just "Side 1" and "Side 2." Turning to the CD-come-tape insert to find the track listing, I see something scrawled across the acknowledgements.

 _Happy Birthday, Grace. Hope you like it. Jet_

Fuck it, I know I said I wasn't taking requests, but from what Show Pony said, none of the guys could deny her anything. I don't think I'm going to be any different.

\---

Dance music's not usually my scene, but Grace is nodding, listening and humming along, and her smile's got me so relieved I barely hear the song. She doesn't take her eyes off the tape deck, though, doesn't let the tape out of her sight, and I wonder what's going to happen when the song ends.

But eventually it does, and I stop the tape, momentarily nervous that by doing so, I'm losing whatever ground I've gained with her, but she's too busy examining the stacks of tapes, the wires and dials, to notice, and for all I know, she's about to start pressing buttons at random.

Coughing, I realize I'm live, and when Grace glances at me, still smiling, I find myself grinning back.

 _Way_ too late in the show, I'm starting to feel it. "Don't worry, boys and girls, that wasn't you losing your _mind_ , you're in the right place. We're changing up the vibe here, that was…" I glance at the tape case, and Grace is already pointing out the track number for the song. "That was Janelle Monae with a track called _Cold War_ , coming out to you from our _very_ special assistant, our very own soul savior in residence, DJ _Queen Motorlady_ , who's just now choosing our final track for the night.

Blinking in surprise and nodding quickly, she grabs one of the tapes she'd been looking at and puts it in the deck before holding up the tape case. Her finger hovers over the play button.

 _Crap_. It's Mad Gear's EP, the same one I'd been planning on stretching out over two more shows. But Grace is looking very proud of herself, and, hell. Maybe it wasn't a random grab, maybe she's a fan. I turn back to the microphone.

"It turns out Queenie might love you more'n I do, friends, and that's saying a _lot_. She's nicer than me, anyway, and looks like she's gonna let you roll out to the last two tracks from Mad Gear and the Missile Kid. So this is gonna be _Mastas of Ravenkroft_ and then Black Dragon Fighting Society. We hope you enjoy, and, until next time, this is Doctor Deathdefying and Queen Motorlady, telling you to keep your keep your tank full, your guns charged and your masks on. Godspeed."

Soon as I nod, Grace is hitting play, though her attention's moved once again. She's staring at the microphone.

She hasn't spoken yet, but she's looking like she wants to. She's looking like she might.

\----


End file.
